Control
by Fic Fairy
Summary: Holby City, Connie and Michael A new perspective on Holby's ice maiden and her marriage to Michael. Predates current events, being as it was written at the time of Dominic Fryer's death. Caution self harm and other issues herein possibly triggering.
1. Connie 1

**Connie**

Ok, Ok, I admit it. I'm a control freak. I have to be able to control everything, and, for that matter, everyone. My husband is a prime example. Will Curtis is a second. If I can't control them then there's the chance they can control me and I couldn't have that. Won't have that. 

I remember when it started. How it started. I was 8. My mother, a repeat sufferer of chronic clinical depression (clearly hereditary) wiped herself off of the face of the earth with 120 aspirin and a bottle of gin. Daddy and I came home from the swimming baths to find her dead on the floor. I've seen a number of dead bodies since, but I can assure you, none of them has ever affected me like that did. 

I reacted by making myself the centre of my daddy's universe. It wasn't difficult. I was 8 years old, I'd just lost my mother, and he was willing to do whatever was necessary to keep little Connie happy. 

Toys, day trips, foreign holidays, you name it. 

It sounds like I was a mercenary little bitch but be reasonable. Mummy had left me - out of choice, I was scared daddy would do the same. If he bought me stuff, took me places it proved he still loved me, and if he loved me he wouldn't leave. 

Fact. I didn't have a babysitter from the day mummy died until well after my 12th birthday. If daddy wanted to go out, daddy took me. When I wasn't in school I was sat at a desk opposite his in his office. 

Another fact. I was proficient audio typist by the age of 11. I could work as a secretary tomorrow if I wanted. The perks of being 'daddy's special little girl'. 

It must have been a drain on the poor bastard. He'd lost his wife and was saddled with a daughter who emotionally blackmailed him every time he tried to leave her side. There were even occasions when I spat the dummy out about being made to go to school. 

"Why do I have to go? Are you going to take pills while I'm gone?" 

Vile little brat. 

It's no wonder that during my second year at Grammar School daddy decided he'd had enough.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't drive him to suicide as well. He didn't even take me to the local orphanage, although I admit I'd have deserved it. No, daddy did the worst thing he possibly could.  
Daddy met another woman. 

Her. 

Even now, on the rare occasions I deem to meet up with my father we still row about her. About my attitude towards her. About the fact I refuse to refer to her by name. My father maintains that she's actually, really, rather nice and that if I'd ever given her a chance we might have got on well.  
This is the singular biggest lie my father has ever told me. Except for that time at my mother's funeral when he told me that I was the most important person in his life and always would be. 

She is not nice. She's not fit to lick mummy's boots, let alone fill them. I know mummy wasn't perfect. I've known that ever since she didn't come to my first nativity play because she couldn't get out of bed, but she was my mummy and she loved me. And I loved her. 

As for that woman… well… it's simple. I hate her. I hated her the first time we met, I hated her on her wedding day when I was forced to dress in puce (!) satin and follow her down the aisle where I watched her take my daddy away and I still hate her now. 

I'll grant her one thing. She did try with me. She bought a parenting manual and tried every trick in the book. 

But guess who read the manual quicker than she did…. 

When she'd exhausted the official tricks, she resorted to lower things. 

Bribing me with chocolate mainly. And cooking all my favourite dinners, 'like mama used to make.'. 

except when she was off her face of tranquillisers and daddy and I had to cook. 

The only problem was, the dinners provided me with a prime opportunity to get the control back.

Ok, so I was no longer at the centre of the fathers' universe. He'd still moved her into my house.

They still went out for romantic dinners without me. I was no longer THE next of kin. 

But that didn't mean I had to eat the food she served. 

And when I didn't eat it she'd get upset. Think she was a bad mother. 

Bad? Yes. Mother? Not fucking likely. 

She wanted me to eat. And I didn't. 

1 - 0 to me. 

You can probably see where this is going. They married when I was 13 and 11 months. By 14 and

2 months I was a fully paid up member of Club Anorexia. 

I looked awful. I can see that now. I still have the photos incase I should ever forget. Mind you, if you look at group photos of our so called family from that time she looks nearly as bad as I do.

Worse even. 

You see she knew as well as I did. It was her fault. I ate perfectly normally before she came along. I grant you it was at some of the best restaurants and usually at Business Dinners with my father

but I ate all the same. 

So failing to see that I was literally killing myself I actually started to feel quite smug. 

The best cure of smugness? 

'Family' (please note the inverted commas) therapy. 

Appointment 1. 

My beloved daddy breaks down in tears. My beloved daddy breaks down in tears the way he used to when mummy drank too much. Or refused to come out of her room. 

There was never an Appointment 2. 

Largely because I got straight home from Appointment 1 and scoffed several portions of her homemade lasagne. 

Daddy looked so proud. 

She on the other hand couldn't have been more fucking smug. 

Which is why, I'm now ashamed to admit I vomited the whole lot up 10 minutes later. 

Self induced. Naturally. 

Insane as it sounds it was brilliant. She thought she'd got the last laugh. I knew I had. 

And so I went on. 

Eat.  
Vomit.  
Eat.  
Vomit.  
Eat.  
Vomit.  
Eat.  
Study. 

Studying was pretty much all that broke up the eat/vomit cycle. I was as dedicated to my studies as I was to getting rid of her crappy cooking. There was no way I could have been anything else, not given my chosen career. 

Medicine. 

I hadn't chosen a specialism then, although I was pretty much convinced that I wouldn't make a great dietician. I just knew I was going to be the best, no matter what I chose to practice in.As it happens it was medicine that eventually removed my fingers from their perpetual home down my throat. It took a few years though. By that time my father had discovered my dirty little secret, largely because I looked like death and had taken to collapsing all over the place. He dragged me from shrink to shrink and informed my school but by that point it didn't matter to me anymore. He could have cried enough to flood the Atlantic Ocean and I wouldn't have stopped because nothing mattered to me except being in control. 

I did get threatened with the dreaded 'Being Sectioned' thing on more than one occasion but I came adept at avoiding it. I just pled my case that if he did that I'd "never achieve my dream to work in medicine" and traded a plate of chips for my freedom. It changed nothing. 24 hours down the line my head was back down the toilet. 

However, as previously stated, my beloved medicine saved me. I applied to medical school, several medical schools infact and at every interview I got told the same thing. 

"Amazing predicted grades…"  
"…Exemplary school record…"  
"…Obvious passion for medicine…"  
"…But we won't take you with the eating disorder." 

I couldn't con them with a plate of chips. This was obvious. I was dealing with professionals. If I was to win them over and get my chosen career on the road I only had one choice. I had to start eating and digesting and acting sane. 

Easier said than done. 

Every bit of food I swallowed felt wrong. 

Every bit of food was kept down because THEY wanted it to be. 

They. Not me. 

They had the control. I didn't. 

It wasn't easy. I struggled I'll be honest. But, in the back of my head I knew that if I didn't take control I would never be a medical student. I'd never be a JHO. An SHO. A registrar. A consultant. All I'd ever wanted to be. 

It was painfully slow but I beat it. I found my own counsellor and gradually more and more meals stayed down. My counsellor wrote to my chosen university. I was accepted. 

There were conditions. I had to carry on seeing someone. I had to have a guidance counsellor. If 'it' came back I'd be off the course. 

I knew the conditions and the consequences and I wasn't prepared to let them happen. Medicine was all that mattered. 

Off I went to university. 

Cured. 

Yeah right. 

You can take the bulimia out of the girl if you try hard enough, but you can't stop her being a control freak. 

I started off ok, but it only was a matter of time. 

I don't remember what sparked it. A less than perfect test result maybe… not having the man I wanted fall at my feet… missing the bus… I don't remember the details of why I only remember what happened next. 

I wasn't in control anymore. I wanted to eat every Kit Kat in the student union vending machine and then force the whole lot back up again. 

Can't control what I am but can control what I eat… 

I wasn't stupid though. I knew the Kit Kats would lead to my dinner and my dinner would lead to breakfast, and breakfast would lead to the crap sandwiches they sold in the refectory and before I knew it I'd have the telltale bite marks on my fingers and bad breath and weigh absolutely nothing.  
And then I'd be sent back home to my father and her. 

A failure. 

Not bloody likely. 

But, I had to do something. Had to take control somehow. I was driven. It was a compulsion.  
Yes, medicine took my fingers out of my throat, but to my chagrin and that of my legs and torso it wrapped them straight around a razor blade. 

And a bottle top.  
And a piece of glass.  
And a scapel.  
These among other things of course. 

And judge me all you want, but what the medical profession can't see, they can't punish you for… 

So yes, in my desire not to be bulimic I became a cutter. 

Tasteful eh? 

I'll never forget the first time, although like I said, the reasons why are vague. I was sat on the floor of my room in halls. I used a razor because that was what I thought you had to do. I've learnt since that anything sharp does the job. Even teeth are sufficient, as a scar on my shoulder will bear testimony to. 

I wouldn't say it's a good feeling. It hurts like fuck , makes a mess of your sheets and means you can't sunbathe publicly unless your skin is as thick as a rhinos. And if its as thick as a rhinos you'd be hard pushed to bite though it. Unless you're some kind of vampire. 

But enough of the metaphors. 

It was control though. Possibly even more than I had with the bulimia. No one carted me off to therapy anyway. Largely because no one knew. 

Did I say knew? 

I meant knows. 

Actually, that isn't quite true. My husband of 15 years is more than aware of the fact that his darling wife loves her collection of pointy implements more than she loves him. He'd be hard pushed to miss the fact given that over the years his darling wife has managed to scar practically every inch of her body that usually remains clothed. 

It's a shame, if anyone else saw those scars they might do something about it but not Michael.

Michael has demons of his own. 

I have Mr Razor Blade.  
Michael has Snow White. 

Once upon a time he thought he could get me down the same road. Tried to tell me that I should control my life with cocaine instead of cutting. What he failed to mention, and what I later found out when I put that shit up my nose, was that there's no control involved with it - once its in your system you don't know who you are or what you're doing. 

You feel nothing. 

You can never make that accusation about cutting. 

So yes, I keep Michael's secret and he keeps mine. 

Perfect. 

You're wondering about Ric right, and Mubbs? 

That's the thing with one night stands. No questions asked. And if anyone is ever rude enough to ask them then you tell them to mind their own business. Ric and Mubbs knew the rules. They didn't ask. 

Ric wants to. I can see it in his eyes when we meet in the corridors. Now he knows we're not a one night stand but colleagues he longs to ask, longs to be able to help, longs to be able to take away whatever pain makes me to do it to myself. Not all men would care that much, but he's a doctor, taking away pain is what doctors do. 

Sometimes I even look down at the scars and the fresh cuts and want to take them away myself. 

It'll never happen. I couldn't take them away if I wanted to now. They're part of me. 

Always. 

I don't know where it will all end. Michael likes to throw at me, during our most furious of rows, that I'll end up like my mum, dead on the floor with half a pharmacy in my gut. I think he's wrong. I spend my days saving lives the last thing I'm going to do is intentionally wipe mine out. Although, that said, choosing when to end your life has to be the ultimate in control… 

I wouldn't.  
I couldn't. 

And if I did, and I changed my mind, there'd be no coming back, and that would be the ultimate in lack of control wouldn't it. 

At least that's what I keep telling myself. 

I'm in trouble though. I know that. The minute you cease to be able to maintain a 'normal life' then you have to learn to face it, and I gave up the right to a normal life years ago. 

So did Michael. 

We'll never have children, there's too much risk involved. We could 'give it a go' and hope that it worked out ok, but there'd always be that chance that the resultant offspring would end up mistaking its fathers cocaine stash for a sherbet dib-dab. Or walking in on its mother scraping a ripped tea-light casing back and forth over her thigh because she likes the noise it makes when it snags the skin. 

It's hardly worth the risk is it? I know that deep down. I watched 'About A Boy' the other night and sobbed myself stupid because I know that if I ever did become a mother I'd fall completely in the same category as Toni Collette's character. 

Just like my mum. 

So maybe Michael has a point. 

Only one thing keeps me going. The job. If the job were gone tomorrow I'd be nothing but another statistic, another cutter with no rhyme, reason or redeeming qualities. But I'm not. I'm a leading CT surgeon.

I'm Connie Beauchamp. 

End of.


	2. Michael 1

**Michael**

When I was young there were three things my mother told me never to do. One of those was to forget to brush my teeth before bed. The second was to run out into the road without checking for cars. The third was any kind of illegal substance. 

Points one and two I managed perfectly. Point three is something of a different story. 

One thing she never warned me against however was marrying a woman whose idea of a good time is carving herself up. A shame I think in hindsight. She could have saved me a good deal of heartache and a fortune in laundry bills. At the very least she might have pointed out that if I was going to marry a self harmer it might make more sense to go for one with inexpensive taste in threads. Connie's designer gear seems to spend half its life at the dry cleaners, at least if she dressed from the high street we'd only have washing powder to pay for. 

Apologies if I sound flippant about my wife's 'little problem' but if you'd lived with her for 17 years (15 of those as her husband) you too would be flippant on occasion. Don't take it to mean that I don't care – I do. I still have my moments where what she does shocks and appals me in equal measures but its such a large part of our life that I can't allow myself to feel that way all the time, hence the flippancy. 

Connie's own attitude doesn't help mine either. What she does doesn't faze her, she barely seems to register the harm she's doing herself. To her the relationship she shares with her razor is no different to Joe Public and a cheap bottle of plonk. If your average woman has a bad day at the office she might expect her husband to open a bottle of chilled Chardonnay and listen to all her woes. If my wife has a bad day in theatre, she brings her scalpel home and locks herself in the bathroom. I'm not joking, nor being metaphorical here. The day Will Curtis died on her operating table she didn't even bother to wash the scalpel she'd been using on him, just bought it home in her briefcase, got it out in full view of me and disappeared upstairs. 

You would think as a doctor the concept of cross contamination wouldn't be completely alien to her - but hey, that's my girl, a screwed up bundle of contradictions. 

In the early days, the very early days there was still a degree of guilt involved on her behalf. She claims there still is but I'm not sure I believe her. I admit, I have seen the tears. I've lay beside her in bed and watched her sob, apparently disgusted by her own behaviour. But its happening less and less now and usually only when she's gone drastically overboard in the heat of the moment - cut too deep or more than she'd intended or dripped blood on our white hall carpet. 

That's another thing my mother should have warned me about. The white carpet. Big mistake.  
Now Connie would probably try and convince you that while she isn't perfect, neither am I. This is, I suppose, to some degree true. I admitted in my first paragraph that I have used illegal substances. Nicotine at 13 (well it was illegal then - at least for me), Cannabis at 16 or 17 and after that and to this day, Charlie. I don't know if addict is the right word to describe me. Connie would say it is but I prefer 'casual user' and getting more casual as the years go by. That's the difference between Connie and I. The older I get, the less I use. The older she gets… well you can probably work it out for yourself. 

I have tackled her about the way her problem is escalating but she's quick to shrug off my concerns. Her cutting is apparently, only as frequent as her most frustrating days, and in her opinion since she's started working at Holby it just so happens that these days are more frequent, a case of all things relative and all that. And I would believe her but my girl thrives on pressure, loves her job. She wouldn't leave Holby if I asked her to. 

That's the other major difference. If she asked me to stop taking drugs tomorrow I'd do it. It might not be easy - drugs are my chosen pleasure, I enjoy them, I like the buzz but if Connie asked, begged me to like I've begged her, I'd stop. 

She on the other hand won't stop. Not for me. Not for herself. Not even so we can have a child, a child she desperately wants although she now tries to tell me otherwise. It's odd, because originally she was the one who didn't want a baby. She informed me on our honeymoon that under no circumstances were she, the cutter and I, the druggie going to produce offspring. I didn't blame her, given her difficult childhood which I knew full well was blighted by a mother who was nothing less than useless but back then I didn't see what harm it would do. Yes, I took drugs but that wouldn't make me a bad father unless I used them around the kid. It's not like I was going to buy my coke out of the housekeeping leaving the child starving - any child of ours would be amply provided for. And Con, armed with a sharp implement or not, was never a danger to anyone else, just herself.  
But gradually, I've reassessed my thinking. I think a lot of it came from seeing what Connie's experience with her mother did to her. If we had children we'd been sentencing them to the said same fate. Not me so much, I could quit the drugs I've said that, but Connie would just end up producing a mini-version of herself. 

I can't let her do it.  
And she hates me for it. 

She knows I'm right but since she asked me if she could come off of the pill and I said no she's found it hard to hide her resentment. 

Then again I don't know if that's because she really wants a baby or just because I told her 'no'.  
My wife doesn't like the word 'no'. It makes her stroppy and obnoxious. That's why I don't tend to say it very often but I'm not putting an innocent child through life with her just because she NEEDS to have her own way. 

So, I think you can conclude from what I've said thus far that we are not a normal couple. Connie and Michael Beauchamp have always been very slightly warped. 

Actually that's not true. 

When we met Connie was a third year med. student. Bright. Bubbly. Incredibly smart. I'd graduated a few years before, was in a fairly low level management position in the hospital where she trained. I adored her on sight. I'd have been hard pushed not to. Connie is, was and ever will be the most beautiful woman in the world. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, for me she spotted me across the crowded hospital cafeteria and wanted me on sight too. 

And what Connie wants Connie gets. 

Even once she had her claws in I insisted on doing it all properly. The first date was a classy affair. A meal in the best restaurant I could afford, Champagne, the works. Even as I stared at her over our Crème Brulee's I knew this was the woman I would spend the rest of my life with. 

The perfect date. 

It started to fall apart the moment I tried to bed her. I'd have had to been off my face to ignore the scars that covered her. I did ask but she said she had a skin condition, said she scratched. 

Bollocks.  
Bollocks.  
Bollocks. 

I didn't get her to confess though. Mainly because I couldn't be bothered to ask. I know what it's like to have a secret, you don't give it up unless you have to. 

The night I eventually got her to confess will stay in my head forever. I'd told her it was poker night. Me and the boys. She, predictably, didn't like being left out. She turned up on my doorstep just after the boys left. The residue was on the table. I'm sure she'd tell you that the evidence was on the edge of my nostril. 

She pressured me. Made me feel like a criminal. A liar. I pointed out that she lied to me every time she mentioned her scars. 

That was when she started talking. 

It's a gutwrenching story. The poor baby with the manic depressive mother. The anorexic. The bulimic. The self harmer. Poor little Connie. The little girl who wanted for nothing but lost everything. These days I probably sound deprecating but back then I loved her, felt sorry for her. 

I still do. 

Always do.

That night was difficult for both of us. For her, it was the first time she ever trusted anyone enough to tell them why and how she cut. For me, it meant the grim realisation that the woman I loved was far from normal. Even then, while my heart was weeping for her my poor baby's lost childhood and scarred body, my head was telling me to get out. 

"You don't need the hassle Michael." 

"She. Cuts. Her. Self. Out of choice. Nutter. Clearly." 

"Jump ship while you still can." 

But how could I jump ship? It was too late. I was in love with her. 

So, I accepted it. I had a girlfriend who used to come to bed bleeding, who would whimper in pain as I touched her - I can't say it was a turn on but she was still beautiful to me. 

In return Connie tolerated the drugs. She disapproved but couldn't argue, because of her secret and because she loved me back. 

On more than one occasion part of her student grant went on cocaine. 

It was a fair trade. On more than one occasion I went to shave and found her blood on my razor.  
Like I say, we weren't the most normal couple in the world but against the odds we really made a go of things, both with each other and in life generally. Two years after we initially met and fell in love my beautiful girl, by now out of medical school and on the wards, consented to become my wife. 

The happiest day of our lives. 

Hilarious. 

You see it was on our wedding day that it started to hit me exactly what I was taking on.  
Ironically the day was perfect. We married in a small church near where we lived. Connie floated down the aisle on the arm of her father, a vision in white, like a bloody princess. 

A 'bloody' princess. 

Now there IS irony. 

It wasn't until we took the floor for our first dance that I realised there was a problem. Connie had chosen 'Stand By You' by The Pretenders (dark as 'first dances' go - but in truth, it suited us completely) and as I took her in my arms, placed my hand just above her waist, I felt the gauze.  
Not directly of course, it was under her dress, but I felt the difference in textures, in levels and instantly I knew. 

And she knew I know. She looked like a rabbit trapped in headlights. 

My baby had cut herself on the morning of the happiest day of our lives. 

To our wedding guests we were Mr and Mrs Beauchamp, swaying away to Chrissie Hynde's vocal. To us, things were far less idyllic. 

We made it through the dance, barely. There was applause and The Pretenders were replaced with some cheesy disco song. She looked at me, 

"Mike, I'm sorry. Annie dropped Bucks Fizz down her…"  
Annie. Her Chief Bridesmaid. Clumsy bitch. 

"… the car was running late."  
One late car. One Bridesmaid covered in OJ and fizz. 

I was fucking marrying her. Why should she give a shit? Her and her fucking control issues. 

She sensed I wasn't being placated. 

"And I wanted mummy here." 

It was more than I could take. I wanted to smack her one. I know what they say, every girl needs her mum but her mum was fucking useless, her mum was the one who screwed her over. Claire, her step mum, had been more of a mum to her than her real mum had ever been. Why ruin our wedding day over her? 

I walked away from her. I figured it was better than giving her a black eye. She might have enjoyed that. 

The rest of the reception was a blur. I drank mainly, caught up with my friends. I did avoid coke though. I wouldn't have done that, not on our wedding day. I wanted to remember it all. 

At one point she disappeared. I started to feel a bit guilty and when she came back I grabbed her arm, pulled her towards me, meaning to whisk her on to the dance floor and twirl her around in a romantic fashion. 

That was when I saw it. 

The blood on the sleeve of her gown. 

It was a trace. To anyone else it wouldn't have been noticeable but I knew exactly what it was and what it meant. 

It meant that not content with self harming on the morning of our wedding, my wife had decided to have a go during the reception as well. I gave her a questioning look. 

She shrugged, "I let you down. Cutting this morning. I'm sorry." 

Far and away the most stupid thing I'd ever heard. She'd eased her guilt over the morning's activities with a repeat performance. 

I told you she was a bundle of contradictions. 

It got worse. 

She went up to the honeymoon suite before I did. I know I should have carried her over the threshold but I was too busy trying to bundle my very pissed bestman into a taxi. When I finally succeeded I made my way upstairs to make love to my gorgeous wife. 

I suspect you have some idea of what I found, but what the hell, I might as well tell you anyway. It doesn't matter how many times I spell it out, I still can't quite get my head round it.

She was in the bathroom, leaning on the bath. Like her dress, the bathroom suite was white. Ditto the floor. 

Oh, except for all the blood. 

It's the only time I've ever seen my baby doing that. Hurting herself in that way. Before that and since that she wouldn't dare. 

The worst thing was that I couldn't stop her, or rather couldn't bring myself to. I just watched as she went over old scars, opening them up. Stared at the blood like it was the Holy Grail. She was like an artist painting a masterpiece. 

I can assure you. Taking cocaine doesn't compare. 

We had our first fight that night. Our wedding night. She stomped up and down in her blood soaked wedding dress. I began to realise what married. 

I think my habit got worse after that. It was easier than remembering my baby slicing herself to bits.

Easier than living with her too. Easier than having to look at the scars. 

After a few months of waking up to blood stained sheets I thought getting her on Charlie was a good idea as well. I thought that if she was doing something I understood I'd cope with it better. Unfortunately Coke didn't do it for Con. Not enough control. 

So this is us now. 

This is our lives. 

Ironically Connie thinks it's her cutting that keeps us together. She thinks I'm with her because she cuts, thus I have someone to keep my cocaine secret. Its ironic because I'm not with her because she self harms, I'm with her in spite of it. She thinks I love her because she cuts. Actually it repulses me. My life would be simpler if I could pack my bags and leave her. Find someone who has a normal life, who could have my child. 

And you know I could do that. I'm not an unattractive man. I could be with someone else. 

But someone else wouldn't be Connie. 

And scars or not, she's my happily ever after. 

End of.


	3. Connie 2

**Connie **

You'd think in twenty odd years as a cutter you'd get to learn the addiction inside and out. How it feels, how to avoid detection, when is a good time to cut and when most certainly isn't. And for me, that's the way it is, the way it has been for as long as I can remember. The routine comes as easily to me as taking a breath, drinking a glass of wine. And yes, occasionally there's a break from the norm - my husband throwing a fit or an excessive bout of guilt attached to some over enthusiastic slicing and dicing but those breaks in themselves have become part of the routine. And once again I know exactly where I stand, secure in the knowledge and understanding of what I'm doing. 

In control. 

All of which makes it pretty hard for me to come to terms with the fact that this evening I broke every rule in the book. Cut where I shouldn't. Got caught. Confessed all. 

I should start at the beginning. 

I did it over Zubin Kahn. 

Not literally over him. Even I can see that drenching him in my blood after convincing the Board to force his resignation might have been very slightly sacrificial. 

Sorry. Cutters humour, and probably not that funny. 

I delivered my bombshell to him and found myself in the unenviable position of feeling bad about it. Feeling guilty. I didn't let it show, far be it from Cruella De Beauchamp to show that she has a heart, but I felt it all the same. Yes, I hate Zubin but I also know how much being a doctor matters to me. 

How I'd feel if someone took that away from me. 

The guilt isn't why I cut though, not directly. 

I cut because I was feeling compassion for someone I wholeheartedly despise, and I'm sorry, the two things don't really go together. 

I'll be ringing up HER next and asking if she wants to do lunch. 

I made for my office, that 'feeling' coursing through me. That ache, that need to get control of the situation. 

Only one problem. I don't cut on the job. Too many professionals around, and besides, on the job

I'm the Doctor, not the Cutter, and never the Twain shall meet. 

Except then. 

In that one moment. 

I grabbed a pair of scissors from my desk tidy, didn't even make it to my chair, just threw myself down on the floor, utterly and quite ridiculously grateful for the soft carpet I'd wangled myself. I was wearing a skirt so access wasn't a problem. 

Although… 

I stopped, the blade inches from my legs. I'd have be careful not to lose control, the skirt was short, there was only so much you can do with a tube of foundation. 

I ripped off my jacket, undid my blouse, reached again for the scissors. 

I'm not going to spell it out to you. Far be it from me to incite anyone else into trying it. I just did my thing. Made the marks, the furious red lines that covered my breasts. 

I only meant to be quick. Nothing major. Just enough to calm myself down so I could drive home. 

No such luck. 

Guess which 'experienced' surgeon caught an old scar at just the wrong angle?  
Guess which 'experienced' cutter forgot to lock the door?  
Guess which mistakes came to my attention at the exact same moment? 

I turned my attention to the door first, being as it was, open with one Ric Griffin standing in it.

Seconds later I pulled my blouse around me, desperately trying to shield my handiwork from view. 

A waste of time as it happens. On two counts. 

He'd already seen, and even if he hadn't the blood seeping through from my last cut would have been a pretty good indicator. 

In that moment, seeing the look of pity in his eyes I actually wanted to kill myself. I mean its one thing him knowing that I used to have a problem, its another thing entirely him walking in on me 'at it'. Even Michael's only been there once and I can assure you THAT is never happening again, not after his reaction. 

But there was a difference between Michael and Ric. I suppose it's a love thing really. Michael actually felt compelled to pretend he cared. I can still see him now, sat on the bed in our honeymoon suite, a look of anguish on his face. 

Ric on the other hand, well Ric was actually very good. Came fully into my office, locked the door behind him - why didn't I think of that - slowly crossed the room and knelt at my side. 

His expression was nothing if not neutral and when he reached for my hand, released it from my blouse so my chest and stomach were exposed once more, I couldn't bring myself to argue. 

"I knew it." 

Three words. Three pointless words confirming what I already knew. That last time I'd been half-naked with him in this office he'd known what he was now having confirmed for him. 

Without a word he helped me up. Sat me at my desk then turned me on my swivel chair to face him and touched my breast. 

With the touch of a doctor I hasten to add, not that of a lover. That was how he looked at me too, as a patient. He surveyed the deep gash. An old scar, long forgotten, back to haunt me. 

"That was unintentional." 

Again, three words but this time less pointless. Joe public has their view of self-harm, big deep gashes all the way. For me, and others too I suspect, that's not always the case. Sometimes little scratches will suffice, or a tiny nick. Sometimes the gashes grow over time. The blood doesn't always have to be flowing. If Ric knew that then there had to be a reason… 

I asked him. 

"My ex wife. She has a similar habit." 

I was tempted to ask which ex wife but was distracted by him heading for the door. I suddenly had images of him telling the world and more specifically the Board - even Michael wouldn't be able to help me lie my way out of this one. 

He clearly saw the anguish in my eyes because he quickly reassured me. He wasn't about to go and provide a Holby Newsflash via Donna Jackson, he just wanted to get a gauze to dress the cut, to keep it clean, to stop it scarring any more 

I let him go but I was in two minds. I dress my wounds out of necessity; to keep that white shirt looking crisp, to protect the sheets when staying with friends, that kind of thing. I do not dress them to stop them scarring. I like the scarring. It reminds me where I've come from. 

My roadmap of a body was a testament to that. 

All the same though, I didn't argue with Ric when he returned, just watched him numbly as he cleaned and dressed the wound. 

He paid more attention to that cut that I have to all my others in total. It made me feel sick. It made me want to pull off the dressing and start all over again. 

But I couldn't. 

That much was obvious. 

It didn't stop the feeling getting worse though. Especially when Ric told me I WAS going for a drink with him. 

Saying no wasn't an option. 

And you know how I feel about that. 

What happened next though is interesting. Dramatic. I think I'll love Ric for it, in the loosest possible sense of the word, forever. He took me a casino near the hospital. He seated me in the bar, returning 5 minutes later with a Brandy for himself and a Gin and Tonic for me. He sat opposite me and then, with a grin, threw something onto the table. 

In spite of my black mood I laughed when I saw it. 

A pack of cards. 

He grinned back, "That's me putting all my cards on the table." 

Cheap puns aside, I saw his point, I knew through the Holby grapevine about his gambling habit.

His gambling addiction. This was him admitting it to me in his own way. 

He looked at me pointedly, as if he was waiting for something. 

Suddenly I realised what. 

Reluctantly and almost mechanically I reached for my handbag, opened it and rifled through it. Eventually when I'd gathered all I was going to I looked him right in the eyes, 

"And this is me putting down mine." 

A scalpel, half a credit card, a nail file, a razor blade and a darning needle joined his cards on the table in front of us. 

Two addicts. One bar. 

It was going to be a long night...

----

I didn't want to talk to him. Not at first. Its been 17 long years since I last explained to anyone why I cut. Occasionally I've thrown it at Michael mid argument but that's not the same as telling someone for the first time; that's nothing he hasn't heard before. 

Ultimately though I knew I couldn't sit there and say nothing. Ric wouldn't accept that and right now, thanks to my own stupidity, he had me pretty much over a barrel. 

All the same, I said nothing to begin with. And when I did eventually tear us from a long silence spent staring at our own individual weapons of choice it wasn't to talk about me. Not directly.  
I asked the question I'd wanted to ask him since we'd been in my office. 

Which of his wives had been just like me? 

Keira. 

I think he said she was wife number three, although to listen to him I think all four of them are pretty much one of the same now. Mistakes in his past, blots on his copybook. Her story wasn't a million miles away from mine. A bad childhood, a need to control that led to 'the habit', the habit that led to her seeking out another addict to marry. 

To have someone who understood what it was like. 

The thing was Ric wasn't like Michael. He couldn't understand. Granted, he knew the feelings involved, the compulsion, the rush. He could draw some parallels with his own gambling but he couldn't get past the actual act. 

Couldn't live with the blood, the tears.  
Couldn't live with her. 

I wanted to hate him for that, for abandoning her. I knew how much she needed his acceptance, his confirmation that she didn't have a screw loose, she was only doing what was necessary.  
Me and you against the world and all that… 

But then again I understood. Couldn't feel that hate. You know why? 

Because if I was married to me, I'd have left myself years ago. 

Anyone would. 

Except the junkie who needs me to reaffirm his sanity as much as I need him to reaffirm mine.  
It's not love with Michael and I. We just need each other. 

I repeat, me and you against the world. 

But tonight it wasn't me and Michael. It wasn't me and my emotional crutch. It wasn't me and the man I could use the words 'pot', 'kettle' and 'black' to every time he tried to insist I was walking a very dangerous path. 

I was with Ric. 

A man who was fighting his addiction and who for no reason I can figure seemed hell bent on trying to get me to fight mine. 

After he told me about his wife, he gently tried to prise the truth out of me, starting with why my apparently sane and sensible husband had never tried to help me. 

I said he had. He'd tried to turn me into a junkie too. 

Ric picked up on the 'too' but didn't push me to discuss it. I think he sensed that Michael's problem was not mine to share. 

He didn't seem shocked though nor appalled by the principle. Apparently he'd caught Keira cutting once and in shear desperation dragged her to a casino and forced her to gamble away a months rent. 

It didn't work for her either. 

But its interesting that men the world over are coming up with the said same ways to remove the razor blades from their partners hands. 

For the record though, it doesn't look like it works so I wouldn't waste your cocaine on the cutter in your life. 

I think it was realising how close 'we' were to 'them' that prompted me to talk. To tell Ric my whole ugly story in glorious Technicolor. 

I started with the night Will Curtis died. 

Cutting deeper than I've ever cut before. Using the scalpel that couldn't save him. Having to suture the cut myself without the aid of an anaesthetic. Ripping the stitches out minutes later because 'he died and I couldn't stop it'. 

And then I worked back. 

Countless nights. Countless attacks against my own body.  
Our honeymoon on a gorgeous cruise ship, the pool on deck that I couldn't swim in because my body was too disturbing for public display.  
The wedding.  
Meeting my knight in shining armour only to find out that armour was as tarnished as I was.  
Medical school.  
The first time.  
The bulimia. The anorexia. Her. My dad.  
Finding my mummy dead on the floor. Wishing I'd been a better daughter, a more special daughter, the kind of daughter that would make her want to live. 

Ric said nothing. Just let me talk. And I did talk, plainly, matter of factly and calmly. Until I got to the bit about mum. What her death meant to me. What her depression meant to me. 

Then I cried. 

And that was a big thing, because I don't cry. Oh, don't get me wrong, I do occasionally weep. I weep in a self-pitying pathetic fashion in faux guilt over the cutting, or more usually if Michael isn't letting me have my own way. 

Empty tears. 

If I need a real release its in private. And its not with tears, its with drops of blood. 

Same shape, different colour. 

But not tonight. Tonight I sat in Ric's arms and cried, I'd go far as to say sobbed, like I was never ever going to stop. And he held me, and stroked my back and kissed my head like daddy used to in the days before I turned vile and he stopped loving me. Like he did when he told me mummy was gone. 

I felt 8 again.  
Ric made me feel 8 again.  
Which is quite pervy considering we've fucked each other. 

But I digress. 

So I cried, and felt 8 and generally made a show of myself and when I finally reached the point where it didn't feel like there were any tears left in me I collapsed in an exhausted heap in Ric's arms. 

Silence. 

The discreet bar tender used the break in conversation as an opportunity to take a drinks order and bring it over. 

When he'd gone, Ric placed a hand under my chin, tilted my head up so I was looking into his eyes. 

"I bet you didn't mention any of that to the Board at your interview." 

I forced a smile. 

"You don't make bets. You quit."  
He pulled me closer to him.  
"Some odds are just too good to ignore." 

We talked for hours after that. Round in circles mainly. He kept saying stupid things like how much he respected me which is clearly crap because what's to respect? Yeah, I'm a fabulous surgeon and a pretty excellent lay, but he's no slouch in those departments either. I kept coming up with a million and one reasons why cutting myself to shreds was a damn fine way to spend an evening. He kept insisting that I was in denial if I thought I had an ounce of control over my habit. I cried over not being able to save my mum, Will, COOP Dividend Points. 

It's the plastic cards you see. Perfect to snap in half and scratch myself with in the absence of a more conventional tool. 

He tried to tell me none of those things were my fault. 

I refused to believe him. 

I seem to recall there was a bit of whimpering about the situation with having a family or lack thereof as well. 

You seeing a theme here? Sensing that maybe the whole conversation was more than a little bit self centred on my part? In fact it took until just past midnight for me to turn the conversation back on to Ric himself, when I finally realised the significance of where we were. 

I looked at him, during a break in the constant Connie commentary (don't try saying that when you're drunk), a puzzled look on my face. 

"Why are we here? This is a casino. Don't you want to go and blow the very generous wage I pay you on the turn of a card or a little ball falling on a number." 

He nodded. 

"There's nothing I want more." 

"So why are we here?" 

He reached for my hand, "Connie we're here to show you that with a bit of effort I learnt to control the craving instead of letting it control me." 

Suddenly I saw it. 

"You're going to tell me I can do that too?" 

He shrugged, "I don't know. Can you?"

And you know I really don't know if I can. While I was with Ric, in his arms, there was a glimmer of hope that I could sort my life out. As we shared a taxi home and he encouraged me to seek professional help I could see a future without cutting, a future with a baby, a new start. 

Sounds promising eh? 

Some hope. 

You see, as I walked through my front door and found my husband passed out on the sofa, a rolled £50 note on the coffee table and enough white powder residue to know he hadn't been using it as a pea shooter or something, reality kicked in. 

It wasn't Michael. Not really. It was the reality that what I should have kept behind closed doors was now in the public domain. I had told Ric EVERYTHING. I'd made myself look weak and pathetic and everything Connie Beauchamp isn't meant to be. 

And I hated myself for it. 

I bet you can't guess how I handled that one… 

Yeah. You've got it in one. 

It's a shame Ric wasted his time on me. 

A leopard can't change its spots. And neither can I.


	4. Michael 2

**Michael**

Remind me again why I put up with Connie?

Yes, she's my girl. Yes, I love her more than life itself but she's also conniving, insane and a complete whore to boot. 

And yes, I know that's no way to talk about my wife but you don't have to live with it. The lies, the manipulation, knowing that you're being played for a complete fool but being incapable of doing anything about it because it would mean hurting the woman you love, a woman who you know has already been hurt enough. 

Take yesterday. To all intents and purposes she and I played the Board like a pair of pros, a few leading questions on my part, some very clever words on hers and 'Goodbye Zubin Kahn'. 

She did it I have no doubt, out of some personal vendetta. Professor Kahn dared to cross her, and you don't do that more than once. 

I did it because it was what my girl wanted. To keep her happy. To make her smile. 

Dominic Fryers death didn't come into it for either of us. 

Neither much did the reputation of the hospital, no matter what Connie told the Board. 

A life lost, a career in tatters and all it really comes down to is Connie getting her own way.  
I shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't let myself be manipulated. But I'm scared of losing her, in any which way she could choose to leave my life, be it with a suitcase or in a coffin. 

And don't think there haven't been threats…  
On both counts.  
On more than one occasion. 

So against my better judgment I went along with it, she got her result and I closed the door on the whole sorry affair. Thought we could put it behind us and get both our personal and professional lives back on track. 

Shame I forgot whom I was married to. 

She doesn't do back on track. She lurches from one little mind fuck to the next. It's a miracle that the outside world has never sussed her out. 

I decided to surprise her by taking her out to dinner. Wine her, dine her, treat her like the princess that she is. If there's one thing Connie reacts well to its attention. She craves it. Other people crave sensible things like food and oxygen. I think she could possibly live without them providing she had a crowd of adoring fans. 

Oh, and a packet of Bic Razors. 

The reservations were made. The champagne on ice.  
The reservation time came and went. The ice melted. 

No Connie. 

I was disappointed but not overly concerned. Con's always been a workaholic. Even on our first date I got hijacked into helping her write an essay on medical ethics (ironic now I think) and for the first few years of our marriage I only seemed to see her when she was asleep. As the husband of an eminent surgeon I'm used to coming second to the job – it's the nature of the beast. 

I called her direct line.  
No answer.  
Her mobile.  
No answer.  
Darwin Ward.  
Finally, a human voice… well Nurse Jackson anyway. 

"Oooh no, sorry Mr Beauchamp Mrs Beauchamp left for the day. About 4 hours ago. Is she not home yet?" 

Or, as she really wanted to say, "How can you think you're capable of running a hospital when you clearly can't control your wife." 

Any other man might have been concerned by this turn of events. Any other man might be running all the terrible possibilities through his head – a car accident, an attack, their wife in danger. 

Any other man isn't married to Connie. 

I knew exactly where she was. 

I know she cheats. It's usually in our own backyard and the whispers usually come back to me. I ought to hate her for it but deep down its part of her, built into her by her childhood. She HAS to know men can't resist her; she HAS to know that they want her. She HAS to feel important. 

Sex is her way of confirming that. 

And it is just sex. That's how I comfort myself. Yes, she fucks them, but there's no intimacy involved, and certainly no love. 

Not on her part, nor on theirs. 

She does it to control them. 

They do it because they want to get laid. One or two have probably fallen in lust with her over the years but they can't love her because they don't know her. 

Not like I do. 

She doesn't let them see her like that. 

I know this because she's told me so. She broke the differences between 'my her' and 'their her' down into painstaking detail during a fight ignited by her sleeping with my boss not long after our wedding. 

'My her' was made love to.  
'Their her' got fucked.  
'My her' loves to be held afterwards.  
'Their her' can't get out of their quick enough.  
'My her' watches me sleep and can't believe she's lucky enough to have me.  
'Their her' looks down at them and wishes they were dead.  
'My her' would tell me anything even if it means leaving herself vulnerable.  
'Their her' tells them nothing, and if they ask they get told to fuck off.  
'My her' is loving, giving and cries at Bambi.  
'Their her' is a cold hard bitch who doesn't even know what crying is.  
I'm special.  
They're not. 

Its all true you know. Except the Bambi part. She's never seen it, even the idea upsets her. Her lovers don't know it, her colleagues don't know it, I don't even think our friends know it, but Connie is adorable. Needy but adorable. 

That's why I'm like I am. 

Certain friends have tried to take me aside, suggest I'm being used. Suggest that maybe I ought to "divorce the bitch". 

But they're not the ones who have Connie fall asleep in their arms. They're not the ones who wake up in the middle of the night and find Connie clinging to them, her nails digging in their shoulders like she's scared they'll leave her if she lets go. 

Dominant bitch?  
Scared child?  
It's a thin line. 

Listen to me. I was telling you what a cow she is. How she makes every second of my life Hell, and I get distracted by how loveable she is. 

It figures I suppose, it is the point I'm trying to make. 

So, back to the point, I assumed she was off on another fuck and run and it doesn't take a genius to know that I didn't like it. I went running for my 'stash' determined to block out the mental images of another man crawling all over my darling Connie. 

Touching her.  
Abusing her. 

Because that's what it is. She pulls the big control thing, pretends she screws around because she can, but deep down she IS just that scared child. That scared child who'll will let anyone do anything just to ensure she gets the attention. 

I'm making excuses for her again. 

And I'm trying to stop. I want to stop. 

Especially after today. 

Today, started, at least in effect, for me at 2am. I woke up on the sofa, the after effect of my last coke hit pretty much in evidence. The light was off, and as I recalled I'd left it on. 

Feeling pretty groggy I went upstairs and… 

Well I wasn't groggy for long. 

There's something fairly 'sobering' about finding your wife passed out your bed, apparently in 'sleep' but looking anything but rested. 

The duvet was pulled back. She was slumped in a heap, like she'd fallen asleep sitting up. There was a patch of dry blood on her shoulder, a gauze on her right breast, an almighty mess of cuts all over her thighs. 

And asleep she might have been, but my Swiss Army Knife was still clutched in her hand. 

I know I've said this before, but I wanted to hit her. I wanted to slap some sense into her. I love her more than I've ever loved anyone but she would rather screw around and cut herself to ribbons than let me love her fully. 

People would die to be loved as much as I love her. 

But what could I do? I took the blade from her hand, crawled into bed beside her and held her. 

Essentially together but infact a million miles apart. 

And this morning, well, same old story. Same old games. She was in the kitchen when I got up. I cornered her at agar, asked her where she was last night. 

The answer was at work naturally. 

And when I confronted her, told her how I wanted to take her out and how I knew she was lying, she claimed she was out with an old friend. 

Crap of course. Women like Connie don't have friends. Other women are the enemy not the confidante. 

And I meant to argue. Wanted to. But then Connie used her greatest weapon. 

Sex. 

And I quote… 

"Oh baby if I'd known of course I'd have been home…" 

One hand on the crotch. The other running through my hair. 

Manipulative cow. 

The gentle push which had me leaning against the pantry door. 

What man would say no? 

So I traded the sex for no further mention of last night. Of the missed date. Of the dubious anonymous friend. We parted for work on good terms. Her PROMISING to be back early tonight. For a repeat performance. For an early night. 

All of which hardly explains why when I went to collect her from her office tonight she was gone.  
It also doesn't explain why when I headed down to the bar nearest the hospital to drown my sorrows I saw 'my baby' and Ric Griffin in the car park. 

It doesn't explain why I saw 'my baby' and Ric Griffin in what can only be described as a 'passionate clinch'. 

But it's not the passionate bit that worries me. 

It's the fact my baby was crying.  
It's the fact he reached out and stroked the tear from her cheek. 

I hate to sound petulant, but isn't all the intimacy suppose to be mine?


End file.
